


Demon Child

by Wuchel



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, alternate version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:31:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wuchel/pseuds/Wuchel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an alternate version of the Season 3 finale. See <em>'Author's note'</em> for further information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The characters of _Person of Interest_ don't belong to me. I'm just borrowing them with no intention of gaining any profit.
> 
> **Author's note:** I definitely recognize that 45 minutes is not a lot of time to tell a story, and that some scenes that are not pertinent to the plot (and there was a crazy amount of plot to be told) just had to be cut. I just missed the character moments a lot, and I guess that's why the last couple of episodes of Season 3 just didn't manage to make me feel for/with the characters - at least not like the last two season finales had managed to do. That's why I came up with a different version of the final episodes that focuses more on the characters, and the impact Decima's actions could have had if it had been played out a little differently. 
> 
> This story is set after _3x18 - Allegiance_ and spans over the course of _3x19 - 3x23_ , and a knowledge of these episodes is definitely required. There will be some very familiar scenes, since I tried to incorporate my version with the events of what actually happened on the show. 
> 
> **Acknowledgments:** Thanks again to my beta _scully1138_. I know there was a lot of whining about this story ...
> 
> Well, enjoy!

Luther - at least that was what he was going by for now - watched the entrance of the corporate building from a diagonal position across the opposite street. He was using one of New York's ever present silver street vendor's carts as a natural cover, and - dressed in a sharp suit with his hair styled to perfection, a coffee cup in one hand and a cell phone perpetually glued to his other - he looked just like any other of the many business men roaming the streets. 

Usually in an operation like this he'd have an entire team strategically placed along the street, who'd have been inconspicuously waiting for his orders. However this time his employer had been adamant that he use as little manpower as possible for this assignment, making it clear that the success of the operation depended on Luther's ability of flying well below the radar. It was definite challenge which had intrigued Luther into accepting this mission almost more than the generous amount of money that was to be transferred to one of his many anonymous accounts after his objective had been achieved. 

The glass door of the corporate building opened up, spilling out a horde of similarly dressed business men and women. Scanning the crowd Luther silently cursed at not seeing who he was looking for. If he had to wait much longer he'd have to give up this perfect vantage point before anyone noticed his unnecessarily prolonged loitering. 

The door slid open once more but this time - as his eyes scanned the new arrivals to the city's ever busy sidewalks - Luther allowed himself a small smile. In the end picking up his target's trail hadn't been as difficult as initially anticipated - he just had to follow the havoc left behind in the wake of their day-to-day business. 

"Secondary targets acquired," he softly spoke into his phone, knowing that his employer had been waiting on the other side of the secure connection for these very words. "Proceeding to intercept."

_"Affirmative."_

Luther dropped his half-empty coffee cup into the nearest trash can and timed the crossing of the street at the traffic light perfectly to bump into the tall man of the unremarkable looking pair. He was just another hurried and distracted business man on his phone, not minding where he was going and yelling a rude "Watch it!" over his shoulder as he carried on down the street. 

Reaching the next corner he stopped underneath a marquee, which effectively hid him from any prying digital eyes. One look at his phone's display confirmed the success of Phase One. Putting his phone back to his ear he said, "Tagging of secondary target has been successful. Proceeding to Phase Two."

_"Excellent,"_ replied the low, cultured British voice. 

Luther hung up his phone, and even though he was moving in the opposite direction of his secondary targets he was confident that if everything went according to his plans they'd meet again. Very soon.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

POSSIBLE THREAT DETECTED...  
.  
REPLAYING RECORDING ...  
 _"Tagging of secondary targets has been successful. Proceeding to Phase Two."_  
.  
TRACING CALL .... UNSUCCESSFUL  
.  
IDENTIFYING TARGETS, SECONDARY ...  
REESE, JOHN - ASSET ...  
SHAW, SAMEEN - ASSET ...  
.  
CALCULATING RISK ... 87 %  
CONTACTING ADMIN ...

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_\- 45 minutes later -_

Luther was sitting in the back of a dark grey delivery van marked _Lee's Dry Cleaning_ on the outside. On the inside the van was loaded up to its ceiling with the best high-end surveillance systems money could buy. He wasn't alone this time, either. His second in command - going by the name of 'Randy' these days - was manning the main communication console to keep in touch with the two men Luther had personally hand-picked for this particularly delicate task. 

So far things had been going smoothly. The signal from the bug that his employer had insisted he use and which he had placed on the male secondary target was broadcasting the man's location loud and clear. All he had to do was follow the signal from a very safe distance and anticipate the right moment to strike. And his gut was telling him that the moment was nearly upon them. 

On the HD displays in front of him he watched the feeds of the well-disguised cameras installed within the van's double hull. Both secondary targets had made their way towards one of New York's smaller parks and now they were clearly waiting on something. Or someone. 

Luther's attention was drawn to a man on one of the screens depicting a wide-angle view of the park. Leading a dog on a leash he looked just like any well-dressed men that crowded the streets of New York's business and upscale living districts. But his uneven gait had set him on a direct interception course with the secondary targets. The hairs on the back of Luther's neck started to rise. It seems his gut had been right once again. 

He turned to Randy. "Jammers engaged?"

Randy typed a series of commands into his console, then nodded. "Jammers engaged."

With his attention back on his screens in front of him Luther watched the man with the limp close the distance between the secondary targets, who had started walking towards the man and the dog as well. 

He opened the audio connection to his constituent. "Possible primary target detected."

_"Wait for confirmation."_

"Affirmative. Waiting for confirmation."

Luther indicated with a jerk of his head for Randy to align the highly sensitive listening-antenna towards their targets. After a few seconds of rustling the voices came through the speakers loud and clear.

_"... corporate espionage always makes me hungry. Anyone joining me for a steak?"_ A low, female voice asked. 

On the screen Luther followed the exchange - saw the tall man looking slightly uncomfortable and shaking his head. The possible primary target had his back toward them, but since the tall man's lips weren't moving Luther was sure it was his voice floating over the speakers next.

_"No thank you, Ms. Shaw. Another time, maybe."_

_"Suit yourself. But I am taking Bear tonight."_ The petite female accepted the leash from the possible primary target with somewhat childish glee and together with the dog left the two men behind. Things couldn't be going any better if Luther had planned it this way. With the departure of the female secondary target a potentially highly-lethal variable had been subtracted herself from the equation. If the man with the limp got confirmed as their primary they now only had to deal with the one equally lethal secondary target. But even lethal men could be caught by surprise. 

_"Would you like to join me for a walk, Mr. Reese?"_ The man with the limp turned to walk along the park path that led towards an exit onto a less-frequented side street. Things were really falling into place but Luther knew better than to get prematurely excited and over-confident.

He watched as the tall man in the long dark coat fell in step beside the smaller, well-dressed man - adjusting his long gait to his companion's impaired one.

_"Something on your mind, Harold?"_ It was the first time the tall man, Mr. Reese, had spoken. His soft and low voice was barely audible over the background noise. And he had called the other man 'Harold'...

"Do we have confirmation of primary target?" Luther asked his employer, who was still watching and listening in.

_"Negative,"_ the voice said. _"Confirmation incomplete."_

Only a slight grimace betrayed Luther's disappointment at his employer's hesitation. But it was not his place to decide. 

_"I am worried about current developments,"_ the smaller man stated, awkwardly turning his upper body in mid-step to look at Mr. Reese. _"Ever since Decima has acquired those generators necessary to power Samaritan it has been awfully... quiet."_

The two men were stepping out of the confines of the park onto the sidewalk now. Luther needed to get the confirmation now, or they'd have to risk being discovered when they'd eventually have to move in order to follow them. "C'mon," he whispered underneath his breath. 

_"Who knows, Finch. Maybe Samaritan never worked. And never will."_

Luther didn't hear the other man's reply. Before he could ask for conformation once more, the cultured voice of his employer spoke the words Luther and his team had been waiting for.

_"Primary target affirmed. Engage. I repeat. Engage. Acquire primary target and eliminate secondary target."_

"Understood." Luther said with a confident smile.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CONTACTING ADMIN ... FAILED ...  
.  
CONTACTING ASSETS .... FAILED...  
.  
CALCULATING RISK ....  
.  
REESE, JOHN - ASSET ... ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 13 %  
FINCH, HAROLD - ADMIN ... ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 57 %  
.  
CONTACTING ANALOG INTERFACE ...  
.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
.  
Feedback is always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Shaw rolled her eyes in slight annoyance when she felt the cell phone Finch had provided her with vibrate in her coat pocket, accompanied by the soft pinging signal from her earpiece. It hadn't even been five minutes since she'd left but apparently the two men just couldn't live without her.

She tapped her earpiece. "Changed your minds about that steak?"

 _"Shaw."_

Surprised by hearing Root's voice instead of Harold's or John's, Sam stopped in her tracks. Something in the tone of the other woman's voice just wasn't right. 

_"You need to turn around. Something is about to happen. Harold and John are in great danger."_

"Well then, shouldn't you be calling them?" Shaw asked, although she and Bear had already turned around to retrace their steps. 

_"I tried but someone is jamming all signals and payphones ... "_ Root trailed off - most likely because Jiminy Cricket was speaking to her in her other ear. _"She just went blind. It's happening NOW, Shaw!"_

"Goddammit." Shaw cursed as she increased her speed from a brisk walk into a full-blown sprint.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Would you like to walk with me, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked. 

Reese, who'd been following Ms. Shaw's departure - with his dog - turned to look at Finch. Harold immediately knew that even though he'd tried his best to appear nonchalant John had picked up on his nervous unrest. Mr. Reese slightly squinted his eyes before he indicated with a gesture of his hand that Harold should lead the way. Finch more felt than saw the ex-op fall into step with his slower and uneven gait beside him. Feeling John's gaze on the side of his head Harold was well aware that he was being read like a book. _So much for being a very private person._

"Something on your mind, Harold?" Reese eventually prodded gently. 

Was something on his mind? Finch almost felt inclined to bark out in humorless laughter. Instead he shot the man beside him a sidelong glance. He still hadn't made up his mind about how much he should tell Mr. Reese. With everything that had been going on - Control searching for the Machine, Decima getting their hands on Samaritan and Vigilance adding just another uncertainty to the entire mess - he hadn't really been surprised when he'd received his own, long forgotten social security number earlier that day. 

He was uncomfortably and acutely aware that all of these groups would love nothing more than to get their hands on him - the creator of the Machine. Their reasons might vary, yet the outcome would most likely be the same unfavorable one for him and anyone affiliated with him.

However if he told John about his number having come up, Harold knew the man wouldn't hesitate a second to drag him to someplace safe, even if he'd have to resort to using force. But with the current situation and the things that were at stake for _every one_ Finch just could not allow Mr. Reese to make a decision based solely on his own personal feelings.

Finch sighed. He knew that John was waiting for an answer from him. "I am," he said, awkwardly turning his body in mid-step to look at Reese, "worried about current developments." That was true enough. Harold couldn't even remember the last time his stomach hadn't been in knots. 

Ever since Decima had taken possession of Samaritan, Ms. Grove's warning words about what that meant for all of them had been playing on a constant loop inside his head. He'd practically been able to feel that other shoe looming over their heads - ready to drop at any second. "Ever since Decima has acquired those generators necessary to Samaritan it has been awfully quiet." _Like the silence before a bona fide hundred-year storm,_ Finch thought.

They were slowly nearing the exit of the park, and were heading toward one of Finch's town cars that he'd had parked in one of the less-frequented side streets earlier.

"Who knows, Finch." John said casually as they stepped onto the sidewalk, about to cross the street. "Maybe Samaritan never worked. And never will."

Harold couldn't deny that he had entertained that same thought at least once himself, but he doubted that they were going to be that lucky. Stepping onto the curb on the other side of the road, Harold turned to John but the words he wanted to say next immediately died on his lips as he saw the look on the other man's face.

Within a split second Reese's neutral expression had turned focused and alarmed. Harold heard a whizzing sound just before he saw John visibly jerk. 

"Mr. Reese, are you alright?" he asked concerned, not understanding what was happening. Harold's eyes widened in alarm as a bright, crimson spot appeared on John's white shirt, growing with alarming speed. "John!"

Reese looked at him - his rapidly paling face a mixture of urgency and utter disbelieve. "Run. Harold."

John's knees gave out before Harold had had a chance to process his friend's strangled words. Acting on reflex, Finch grabbed the lapels of Reese's coat and tried to break the other man's fall by pulling John towards him.

The ex-op was dead weight in his arms and the smaller man had not had a chance to prepare his stance for this added weight. Losing his balance Finch just barely managed to cushion both of their falls and ended up awkwardly kneeling in front of a rapidly fading John Reese. 

Suddenly strong hands grabbed him from behind and pried him away from the wounded man in front of him. He tried to put up a fight, tried to remember all the things John had told him about self-defense, but all thought left him as a painful prick - followed by a cold sensation in his neck - seemingly stopped every one of his brain's commands on their way to his limbs.

Harold's eyes connected with John's. The raw pain and helplessness were clearly visible in his blue orbs, and Finch's breath caught in his throat as Reese's lids slowly slid shut.

The last thing Harold Finch consciously saw - before someone pulled a hood over his head and shoved him inside what he assumed was a van - was John Reese, the closest thing he'd had to a best friend since Nathan died, lying unnervingly still on the sidewalk in an ever growing puddle of his own dark red blood.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shaw reached the point where she had last seen John and Harold at a sprint. Bending over and breathing heavily, she propped herself on her thighs. There was no sign of her colleagues as she let her eyes roam over the park. _Where the hell did they go?_

Beside her Bear was literally dancing with excitement, pulling at his leash while alternating between barking and whining.  
Taking a deep breath Shaw started to run again, allowing Bear to take the lead and dragging her along with him. 

They came to a park exit and she let go of the Malinois' leash as she saw a grey van peeling rubber across the street and speeding off before she could manage to pull out her gun. She ran after it and stopped in the middle of the road in an attempt to take aim but cursed as it sped around the next street corner before she'd had a chance to take a shot. "Damn it!"

 _"Shaw, what's happening?"_ Root asked. Apparently the Machine was still blind.

"I think John and Harold just got kidnapped." Sam said angrily between pants. She couldn't believe Reese had allowed someone get the drop on him. She tucked her gun away, turned around and froze. "Oh crap."

Reese was lying on his side on the pavement. He was not moving despite Bear's best efforts to wake him by licking his face. Already starting to assess the damage before she had even reached him, Shaw ran over to her fallen partner. There was blood. A lot of blood. John's white shirt had taken on a crimson color as had the pavement in front of him. 

Kneeling down in the growing puddle of blood Shaw turned Reese onto his back and checked for a pulse. It was there, but just barely. She got rid of the clothes that obstructed her view of the wound by violently ripping the soaked cloth apart and cursed again. Blood was still heavily pouring from a gunshot wound to Reese's chest and a quick check of the man's back confirmed that the bullet was still somewhere inside of him. She took her scarf off and bunched it up in order to apply pressure to the wound. He needed a hospital. There was no way that she could fix him by herself in their make-shift emergency room. 

"What happened?" a voice asked as a set of legs appeared in Shaw's field of vision.

"This man got shot." Shaw said and looked up at the pale face of what looked to be a young, male college student. "I need you to call an ambulance."

"Oh ... o-o-okay," the kid stuttered. Fumbling for his cell he turned around to place the call and most likely to avoid getting sick at the sight of all the blood.

Shaw glanced over her shoulder and took a look around. Unobserved, she quickly went through Reese’s pockets - taking John’s gun, Stills’ NYPD badge, the money in his wallet, and all but one ID – in order to make sure that when the police arrived all signs were pointing to a robbery gone wrong.” 

"Root," she said softly, while she went through Reese's pockets. "Reese is down. It looks bad. And Harold is gone."

_"She can see you now. I'm on my way. Keep him alive. The ambulance will be there in three minutes."_

_Three minutes?_ Judging by the soaked state of her scarf Shaw doubted Reese had that long. Nevertheless she increased the pressure on the wound in hopes of slowing the bleeding. "C'mon John."

It might have been only two minutes - but definitely felt like a lot longer - before Shaw heard the sirens of an ambulance and probably the police as well, and by that time they had drawn the attention of a small crowd. Someone had thoughtfully placed a folded jacket under John's head - probably the same guy who was now holding tightly onto an agitated Bear's leash.

Shaw was still pressing down on Reese's chest with all her might when finally an EMT knelt down beside her, and told her to let go.

Before she got up to make room for them to work she gave one last glance at her co-worker's unnaturally pale face. And although Shaw rarely felt any kind of emotion - a condition that had helped her excel at her chosen line of profession - even she felt a knot of dread in her stomach as she realized that John Reese was not breathing anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

Detective Lionel Fusco had long learned not to question anything Wonderboy or the Professor asked of him. They said 'jump' and he'd ask 'how high?' For Reese he'd done it out of fear at first, for the Professor because Lionel respected him and for Shaw because - and God help him - he actually liked the trigger-happy woman. She did save his kid after all, and Fusco would never forget that. 

However when Cocoa Puffs called and gave him an address that he needed to get to ASAP he was rather hesitant. As much as Reese had the ability to intimidate him with just one glowering look, Looney Tunes had the ability of creeping him out. The only thing that made Fusco follow her instructions without putting up too much of a fuss was the mention that Reese and Shaw needed his help. 

In the nearly three years that Lionel Fusco had now known the unlikely pair and their newest deadly addition he'd learned to expect the weirdest to the most worrisome situations whenever he received a call for help. He just sometimes wished they'd call before all mayhem broke loose. 

Pulling up to the address he'd been given the detective wasn't really surprised to be greeted by the blinking and flashing lights of several police cruisers. _What the hell have they gotten into this time?_ Lionel wondered, idly watching a couple of uniforms taping off an area up ahead with crime scene tape. He sighed and got out of his car. 

Lionel showed his badge to a uni, who had been about to step in his way and asked, "What have we got?"

"Detective," the uniformed officer greeted him with a nod and half turned to the scene with his hands firmly placed on his utility belt. "Looks like a robbery gone wrong. A guy got shot."

"Any witnesses?"

"Yeah, my partner is taking their statements." The officer indicated another uni who was taking notes while talking to a petite, darkly dressed woman. If Lionel didn't know better he'd say Shaw actually looked shocked and distraught - the wide eyes, shaky gestures and a knuckle-whitening tight grip on Bear's leash all were a nice touch.

"Okay. Thanks." He dismissed the officer and walked over to where Shaw was most certainly spinning one hell of a yarn. He was pretty sure that _'Detective Stills'_ was probably lurking around here somewhere as well. He once more flashed his badge, hoping he wouldn't have to explain why a homicide detective was taking over the interviewing of a robbery witness. However the young officer who'd been in the process of taking Shaw's statement seemed only too happy to relinquish the responsibility to a more senior officer.

"It seems like a robbery that went wrong," the officer reiterated his partner's words and handed Fusco a plastic evidence baggy with an open and bloody wallet. "Victim's name is 'John Warren'. He's been taken to Mount Sinai with a GSW to the chest."

At hearing the somewhat familiar name Fusco's eyes flew up from the evidence back to the officer and quickly back down to the wallet as he fumbled with the plastic in order to be able to view the bag's contents. At seeing the even more familiar face of John Reese staring back at him from the bloodied driver's license Lionel's heart skipped a beat and his head instinctively shot up to look at Shaw. She slightly shook her head. _Holy shit!_

Luckily the officer hadn't seemed to notice the quick exchange between the detective and the 'witness'. Fusco swallowed - his mouth having suddenly turned dry as the desert - and cleared his throat and tried to sound nonchalant. "So, the victim's still alive?"

"Yes. At least he was when the EMT's loaded him in the ambulance. Not looking good though, they said."

The knot in Lionel's stomach tightened and he had to clear his throat again as he turned to Shaw. "And you are?"

"This is Ms. ...," the officer interjected before Reese's partner had a chance to open her mouth and consulted his notes, "... Anderson. She was the first on the scene."

Fusco looked at her more closely and noted for the first time that her coat was darker in some places and that her hands were actually covered in partially dried blood. _Holy. Shit._

"Alright," the detective said - more or less snapping himself out of staring too long. He turned to the officer, "I've got this from here," and back to Shaw. "Would you please accompany me to the station for a complete statement Ms. _ehm_ Anderson?"

Shaw nodded timidly - still playing the part of a distraught witness disturbingly well. However her demeanor changed instantly as soon as they were in Fusco's car. There she looked like her normal pissed off self again ... just a little more pissed off.

"Damn it!" She cursed and slammed her hand against the glove compartment, leaving behind dark red smudges on the plastic.   
Fusco shot her a quick glance before returning his attention to the mad rush-hour traffic around them. 

He had always known - deep down in the farthest recesses of his subconscious - that someday even Reese's luck would run out. However he'd never have guessed that when the time came he'd be doing his best to deny it. This was _Wonderboy_ they were talking about. Of course he'd be alright. Right?

"What the hell happened?"

Shaw had crossed her arms over her chest and was silently fuming beside Fusco on the passenger seat. When she spoke though, there was no trace of emotion - not even anger - which worried Lionel even more. "I'm not sure. When I got there Reese was already down ... and Finch gone."

Fusco's head whipped around - traffic be damned. "The Professor's gone? What do you mean 'gone'?"

Sam turned her head to send one of her withering looks the detective's way. "What it means, _Lionel_ , is that someone snatched him. And they weren't kidding around."

"Who?"

"Take a pick."

Having deemed the distance from the crime scene they'd just left far enough, Fusco pulled his cruiser to the curb. They sat in silence for a few seconds - the humming of the idling engine the only sound in the car. Lionel was staring ahead and his hands were tightly gripping the steering wheel. 

It wasn't the first time Finch had been taken or kidnapped, but usually there had always been an uncompromising John Reese left behind who had been single-minded in his pursuit and hellbent on finding his boss. Which - weirdly - had always felt somewhat reassuring. 

Now? Now they were on their own. And Fusco didn't delude himself that with the kind of enemies Finch and Reese attracted he was way out of his depth. 

Nevertheless ... "What are we gonna do now?" he asked and turned to look at Shaw's hard profile. The muscles in her cheek flexed as she pondered over their options. Hell if she knew.

Eventually facing Lionel she replied, "You go to the hospital. Keep an eye on Reese. Whoever tried to kill him might come back to finish the job."

"So he's going to be okay?" Even to his own surprised ears that question had sounded pathetically and desperately hopeful as he stared at Sam's blank expression.

Actually Shaw would be surprised if Reese had made it to the hospital alive, considering the struggle the EMT's had to revive and stabilize him that first time he'd coded right there on the sidewalk. However she was well aware that despite all the grumbling and grousing Lionel Fusco somehow truly cared about ... all of them. All bad bedside manners aside even she knew that now was not the time for callousness.

She softened her features - a look she'd practiced so hard for hours in front of a mirror during her time in med-school. "It's bad, Lionel. We should prepare for the worst."

Lionel blinked a few times and his eyes travelled to the smudges on the glove compartment as Shaw's words sank in, and chased away all remaining vestiges of his denial.

"I'll call you." Shaw said. She didn't wait for a response from him, opened the passenger door, stepped onto the busy evening sidewalk and together with Bear disappeared within the crowd.

Fusco put his car's gear into 'Drive', yet hesitated to merge back into the traffic. He had never been privy to the details of the team of Vigilante's undertakings. He merely contributed his support whenever they needed him. And so far he'd always felt like he was betting on the winning team. However now he couldn't help but wonder if maybe this was the beginning of the end.

"Crap," he dejectedly whispered underneath his breath, then set the blinker and maneuvered his cruiser into the traffic. Despite all odds he hoped that when he arrived at the hospital there wasn't any more bad news waiting for him tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

Fusco had always felt an overwhelming dislike towards emergency rooms. If the reason one ended up there wasn't already bad enough, in a city like New York one usually faced hours spent in a waiting area crowded with people who were inarguably not having a good day. Moods were volatile and there was crying, painful moaning, coughing, screaming, blood and all sorts of bodily fluids. Add to that the adrenaline-fueled trauma cases that were rushed through the place in a flurry of running and frantically yelling people and Lionel couldn't help but perceive the place as hectic, unfriendly and bordering on chaotic. And the coffee was even worse than the swill they offered at the precinct. 

It definitely lacked that caring and nurturing atmosphere the posters on the hospital walls were advertising. Fusco had once spent hours with his kid Lee in pain from a broken arm - courtesy of Billy Hacks and his lack of control with a hockey stick - sitting on one of the uncomfortable lime green plastic chairs and waiting for a nurse to at least look sympathetically their way.

However he was pretty sure that Reese's case had fallen into the category of "high-adrenaline-touch-and-go-with-a-lot-of-frantic-yelling", which thankfully excluded a search of the crowded waiting room from the start.   
Making a bee-line for the registration desk he flashed his badge and asked for a status on John Warren - recently admitted gunshot victim. 

The nurse behind the counter scrutinized his badge thoroughly before turning her attention to the computer terminal in front of her. "What was the name again?"

"John Warren," repeated Fusco as he stuffed his badge back into his coat. 

The nurse - Janice, her name tag read - swiftly entered the name into the system and then squinted at the screen in front of her. "Ah, got him," Janice said, then continued to silently read. After what seemed like hours of no forthcoming information Lionel came pretty close to reaching over the counter and turning the screen around so he could read for himself. 

"I'm sorry," she finally said, causing the detective's heart beat to come to an abrupt stop, "but he's still in surgery." 

_Jesus Christ!_ Fusco thought and expelled a breath in relief as his heart continued its efforts of pumping blood through his veins with renewed vigor. He clutched the edge of the countertop with all his might, trying to keep up the air of a detached cop looking for his witness. "So he's going to make it?" 

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you that. You'll have to wait for the surgeon for an update on Mr. Warren's condition, however I don't know how long the surgery will last. You can either come back later or wait at the surgical ward."

Fusco didn't have to think about it. "I'll wait." He turned around to head for the waiting room as nurse Janice had suggested, only to realize that he had no idea where he was supposed to go. He executed an about-face but before he could even open his mouth Janice waved a hand to his right. "Third floor to the left."

Thanking her he followed her directions towards the elevators, and managed to hop into a cab just as the doors were about to close. There were four more people sharing the cab with him, but a deathly silence dominated the short trip to the third floor as was the custom for elevator rides. 

Lionel was the only one who stepped off at the surgical ward. He turned to his left and walked down the corridor - his shoes making a soft squeaking sound as he walked across the worn linoleum.

He came upon more rows of the uncomfortable lime green plastic chairs on each side of the hallway, and picked one on the left closest to the closed double doors that had the lettering _Operation Rooms - Staff Only_ stenciled onto them. 

Grimacing he sank down on the hard plastic. He knew this could take all night but he swore to himself that as long as John Reese was going to keep fighting for his life beyond that closed set of doors he would make sure that no one was going to tamper with his odds.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His knees were perpetually and alternately bouncing up and down, yet Fusco wasn't sure if his unrest was due to nervousness or because of the unhealthy amount of coffee - let's just call it that - he had forced down his esophagus over the last couple of hours. It was probably a combination of both. 

It felt like it had been days since he sat down and started his vigil but he refused to check his watch again. The last time he did Reese had already been in surgery for over five hours, and Lionel was still not done arguing with himself whether that was a good sign or not.

And now - although he felt so high strung that he thought his body might start humming at any minute - his eyelids were seriously feeling the effect of gravity, reminding him that it had been an exceptionally long and freakishly exhausting day.

Fusco dismissed the thought of getting another cup of coffee from the vending machine around the corner almost immediately. One more cup and he was sure the atrocious tasting, brownish liquid that doggedly sloshed around his belly would reach critical mass and probably burn a hole through his stomach's lining.

What the hell was taking so long?

Just as he finished the question in his head the double doors swished open to reveal a tall, thin man dressed in green scrubs, and wearing a surgical cap. He had pulled off his face mask, though it still was tied around his neck. Fusco got to his feet.

"Family of John Warren?"

The detective straightened to his full height in order to exude nothing put police professionalism and pulled out his badge to present it to the man in front of him. "Detective Lionel Fusco, NYPD. I'm the lead in the investigation into Mr. Warren's robbery and subsequent shooting. Unfortunately we haven't been able to get in touch with his next of kin yet. Can you tell me how he is?"

The surgeon studied Lionel's badge closely and Fusco briefly wondered if the hospital had had problems with fake policemen surreptitiously obtaining information before as the man's actions closely mirrored the nurse's from earlier that evening. In the end he realized that he really did not care at all about that - and it was definitely not the reason why he was now holding his breath as he waited for his question to be answered. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

Satisfied with his scrutiny of the badge the surgeon pulled off his surgical cap and briefly rubbed through his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. "He's hanging in there." _Oh, thank God._ "But he's still in a very critical condition. The bullet caused extensive damage and we really had a hard time not losing him on the operating table."

"Well, when do you think I can talk to him? He's pretty much our only witness." As callous as his question sounded Fusco knew it was the right thing to ask in order to keep up the pretense of merely being the cop who got stuck with the case. And judging by the surgeon's incredulous look Lionel had pulled off his act fabulously. 

" _If_ \- and that is a very big one - Mr. Warren pulls through the next two days he _might_ be fit for questioning in two to three weeks. But detective, I wouldn't count too much on that testimony if I were you."

Lionel swallowed. Hearing the doctor's opinion about John's chances of survival unembellished by carefully practiced bedside-manners was like a punch to the gut and he had to fight hard not to grab the guy by his scrubs, push him up against the wall and get into his face. The doctor didn't know that he was talking about one of Fusco's - _ah, what the hell_ \- friends.

"Well, he's still a material witness. I will have to make sure that he's safe for the moment."

"I assure you he is."

"Yeah, well, I have to see that with my own eyes. Regulations, you know?" Fusco was lying through his teeth, and for a second it looked like the surgeon wasn't buying it. Lionel held his breath. Again.

Sighing the doctor eventually relented. "Fine. He's currently being moved to the ICU. I'll have a nurse come and get you as soon as he's settled."

Doing his best not to look too pleased about this Fusco thanked the man and returned to his lime green plastic chair for the next stage of waiting.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wait didn't take that long this time. Approximately half an hour after Lionel had spoken to Reese's surgeon a nurse came and led him down the halls towards the Intensive Care Unit. She stopped in front of an opaque glass sliding door and with one hand on the handle she turned to look at him with a stern expression. "Two minutes."  
The detective nodded, dutifully stating that he wouldn't need that long and pressed himself past her as soon as she started to pull back on the handle. 

Fusco had not known what to expect as he entered the dimly lit room but was immediately struck by a feeling of eerie wrongness. It was almost difficult to make out the form of the usually larger-than-life John Reese on the hospital bed with all the beeping monitors and tubes surrounding him. His chest was thickly covered in gauze and rising rhythmically to the clicking and hissing of the ventilator that was forcing air into his lungs through a tube down his throat. John's face was pale - too pale - and slack in unconsciousness. Fusco had never before seen Reese's face without his customary scowl or glare and somehow this really brought it home to him that Wonderboy might not make it this time. 

He hovered at the foot end of the bed, and if he had had a hat or anything else in his hands he probably would have been apprehensively wringing it to pieces. Somehow Fusco felt the need to supply Reese with - or to at least remind him of - an incentive to keep on fighting for his life. Looking over his shoulder to make sure they were not being observed, he made his way towards the head end of the bed - careful not to disturb any of the medical apparatuses. 

With the irrational thought that John would probably hear him better if he got closer to his face, Lionel bent forward and - not caring that he sounded like a bloody movie cliché - said calmly, "Wonderboy, it's me Fusco. I know you don't really care about any of my opinions but I _need_ you to listen to me now. Finch is out there and he's counting on you. So don't you dare give up!"

Straightening up, Lionel took one last look at John Reese's unnaturally still face and left before the nurse had the pleasure of kicking him out.   
Outside the ICU he finally looked at his watch and decided that he could risk waking his Captain at five in the morning to request a round the clock protective detail for John Warren.

With any luck he'd even manage to get some sleep before he had to start his next shift at the precinct. He had the distinct feeling, however, that his sleep would be anything but restful.


	5. Chapter 5

The world was blurred. And spinning. Although there wasn't much light the rays that did find their way into Harold Finch's ocular system were powerful enough to send fiery spikes of pain along his optic nerve to fuel the rhythmic pounding of his head. Groaning he pressed his eyelids tightly together.

Harold couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up so excruciatingly hung-over, but whatever had happened last night ... it must have been one hell of a party.  
Reaching up a hand to rub at his burning eyes he at least solved the riddle of why the world seemed to be universally out of focus. His glasses were gone. 

Finch tentatively blinked open one eye and allowed the other to follow suit as his check revealed the light to be still uncomfortable, but to have at least lost most of its burning power. The world was still spinning however, and even though he tried to sit up very slowly and carefully it increased its rotary speed considerably. Groaning again as the nerves in his back and neck and a lurching stomach joined forces to make him feel as miserable as possible, Harold dropped his head in his hands and wondered if it would be okay to just die for a little while. 

Taking slow and deep breaths finally helped to settle his stomach, and he dared to take another peek at the world. Squinting myopically at the brownish blur beside the head of the bed or cot he had been sleeping on Harold thought he could make out an object that resembled his glasses resting on the wooden surface of the side table. He groped for the object - careful not to mangle the fragile frames - and sighed in relief as finally the world was thrown into focus again. He stopped short at finding himself in unknown surroundings, and - even more startling - on the wrong side of a locked wooden drop-down gate. 

He blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog from his mind. Things were slowly coming back to him. He remembered that he was walking with John and ...

Suddenly the floodgates keeping his memories beyond his reach burst, and the last seconds before he'd lost consciousness replayed themselves with crystal clarity before his mind's eye.

Harold gasped and started to hyperventilate as he looked down at himself. The dark stains of John's blood were standing in sharp contrast to the light brown of his suit. His stomach lurched again. He knew he was about to be sick and just barely remembered that he had seen a glass of water standing beside his glasses on the table. 

He blindly grabbed for it - spilling most of its contents on its way from the table to his mouth - and greedily gulped down the cool liquid. Lowering the glass with shaking hands Harold stared at the dried blood on his hands and the bloodied cuffs of his shirt. Breathing deeply again he pressed his eyes shut, only to be confronted by his memories of the pain and helplessness in John's eyes before he'd closed them. And for all Harold knew - for good. 

No! He could not allow himself to think that way. Instead Harold did what he always did best - he rationalized. He hadn't had time to evaluate the true extent of Mr. Reese's injuries, and he had first-hand experience witnessing John's uncanny resilience. For all he knew there might even be a tracker in his glasses again, even though he'd asked John to respect his privacy after he found out about it the last time. Finch just had to make sure that he'd stay alive as long as he could to give Reese time. And it was funny - really - how he was now praying that Mr. Reese had disregarded all his talk about being a private person, and not to be put above the numbers. He just had to believe that John was out there - tearing the world apart looking for him - because if he wasn't it would mean that there was no hope left that Decima could be stopped from executing their plans. 

Harold swallowed the lump that had been growing in his throat and carefully returned the now empty glass to the side table. The shaking of his hands had lessened considerably as his initial shock was slowly ebbing away. His head was still pounding but at a much more acceptable level.

Looking around he did not find any clues as to who had taken him this time, but the pool of candidates was rather manageable. With Ms. Groves working for his side these days - or at least he hoped she was - that only left either Control or Decima. And considering recent developments Harold would put a considerable chunk of his money on the latter.

Getting up stiffly he walked towards the gate, his limp more pronounced than usual due to the prolonged inactivity in an unfavorable position. He shook the wooden planks of his shed-like accommodations, only to confirm that he was indeed locked in. Turning around he viewed the space and frowned at the spartan furnishings. Besides the cot and the side table there was only a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling high above on two geriatric looking wires casting its meager light over the place.

Limping back to the cot Harold sat back down. He had no other choice but to wait for whatever steps Decima was going to take next.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harold startled at the sound of a heavy metal door being pulled open. He didn't know how long he had sat and waited as he had allowed his mind to drift, calming his agitated nerves by running through lines of code in his head. 

Looking up at the sound of footsteps coming down the dark corridor beyond the reach of the plucky single light bulb, he was not surprised at seeing John Greer step out of the gloom.

"It's truly a pleasure to finally put a face to the name, Mr. Finch," he said with a smile. It sounded more like he was giving himself a verbal pat on his own back for having achieved Harold's capture than an actual greeting. "I've been wanting to meet you for a long time now. However I do have to apologize for your accommodations. It's hard to find a truly private place these days - without having to worry that someone might be watching. But," his smile turned sly, "I am sure that you - of all people - are aware of that."

"Whatever it is you want from me," Harold said carefully after a few seconds of silence, "I won't help you."

Greer actually chuckled at that and stepped closer until he was only inches away from the wood planks that separated them. "Whoever said anything about needing your help, Harold?"

Finch's eyebrows creased in confusion. "Then _why_ am I here? If not to help you with making Samaritan operational?"

"Isn't my desire to meet the man who created the first artificial intelligence reason enough?" Greer was still smiling at Harold and if there hadn't been bars between them Finch might even have been fooled into believing that he truly was facing an admirer.

"Your friend Arthur had been so very close to success. All he needed was more computing power, which we were able to provide. It's a pity - really - that he could not be around to witness his creation's true birth."

Blinking at Greer's words Finch got a sinking feeling. "Samaritan is already operational."

"Correct. It's been up and running for a few weeks, and has successfully mastered the initial testing phase. All it needs now is to be able to see."

Harold's mind was racing. This could only mean one thing. "You want the government feeds."

Greer inclined his head. "Correct again."

"They are not just going to hand them over to you." Harold said - allowing himself to take some comfort in that knowledge. There was just no way ...

"Oh," Greer replied - sounding knowing and confident at the same time, which unsettled Harold even more, "just let that be my worry, Mr. Finch. Just know that I have enjoyed our metaphorical arm wrestling a lot over the last few months. It's rare to face a worthy adversary these days, wouldn't you agree?"

Greer checked his watch. A look of sincere regret washed over his face. "It seems I must apologize to you again, but I will have to leave you on your own for a while now. I have some business to attend to in Washington. However I hope that we will continue our conversation when I get back. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Turning around Greer disappeared down the dark corridor - the echoes of his steps growing fainter with each second until the sound of the opening and closing metal door drowned out everything else.

Harold still sat stiffly on his cot, and stared at the point where Greer had stood beyond his cell. His mind was racing through the ramifications the Brit's words had implied. He tried his best not to let despair overpower him, and to cling to the gossamer threads of his painstakingly acquired - yet feeble - hope. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

LOCATING ADMIN ... FAILED

CALCULATING RISKS ...  
FINCH, HAROLD - AMDIN ... ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 87% ...  
REESE, JOHN - ASSET ... ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 7% ...  
SHAW, SAMEEN - ASSET ... ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 65% ...

CALCULATING PRIMARY OBJECTIVE SUCCESS ... 8 %  
CALCULATING SECONDARY OBJECTIVE SUCCESS ... 47 %

REASSESSING ASSET USE ...  
CALCULATING PRIMARY OBJECTIVE SUCCESS ... 0 %  
CALCULATING SECONDARY OBJECTIVE SUCCESS ... 67 %

CONATCTING ANALOG INTERFACE ...


	6. Chapter 6

Former CIA-operative Sameen Shaw had realized early in her life that she was different. Feeling emotions like the people around her did had always been an empty concept to her. And she reacted with equal puzzlement towards people openly sharing their feelings as they reacted to her obvious lack. If she had a dime for every time she'd been called heartless ...

However there was one emotion Sameen knew all too well. Anger.

And she was angry now.

It had taken her all night and the better part of the next day to track down some of her former co-workers in hopes of finding leads on where Harold Finch might have been taken. After having implemented her most persuasive questioning methods she'd managed to extract information that she believed to be true from one of the agency's most-likely-soon-to-be-retired agents. Control did not have Harold Finch, and they also had no idea who did. And her call to Fusco for an update on Reese's condition hadn't really helped to improve her mood either.

Whoever said that bad news was better than no news at all had better never cross her path, because she seriously felt like shooting someone. Goddamn it, hadn't Finch been supposed to know when the proverbial pile of excrement was about to hit the fan?

It was difficult for Shaw to admit but she didn't know what to do next. She was tired and hungry and well aware that she was close to running on fumes. Lacking any sort of leads she figured that she'd go get some food, check on that twitchy Asian guy she had left Bear with, and then get some rest before thinking about what to do next. 

And where the hell was Root? She had said she was on her way, hadn't she? Shaw really wouldn't mind having access to the insights of that prompter inside the crazy woman's ear right about now.

Turning the corner with the intention of heading into the next deli, Shaw stopped in her tracks at seeing Root leaning leisurely against a parked car. "It's about time you showed up."

Root smiled that unnerving smile of hers and pushed herself off the car. "Hello Shaw. Nice to see you, too. Get in."

With the thoughts of food having been demoted on her priority list Shaw did as she was told and settled herself on the passenger seat. Without further explanation Root started the car and moved it into the traffic.

"You have a location on Finch?" Shaw asked hopefully.

"No." Root didn't sound too worried, though.

"Then where are we going?"

Root turned to take a quick look at Shaw. "I need your help on something else."

Sam frowned. "What could be more important than finding Finch? And by the way, why didn't the Machine warn us?"

Sighing like a woman who's being forced to explain her intentions to someone of inferior intellect over and over again Root switched lanes and headed for the nearest road that would take them out of Manhattan. "She did, but Harold - in his desire to not be treated preferentially - decided to ignore her warning. When will he ever learn, right?" She flashed Shaw another of her smiles. "The Machine says that he's safe for the time being and that we should focus on the secondary objective."

"I don't understand," Shaw said with her frown deepening. "What secondary objective? I thought we were trying to stop Decima from bringing Samaritan online?

"Yes. That was the primary objective - the one she had tasked Harold and John with. However she had me work on a contingency scenario in case they didn't succeed - to make sure that all of us will at least have a chance of surviving when Samaritan comes online. Now, with John and Harold out of the picture the probability of success of stopping Decima and therefore Samaritan has pretty much dropped below zero. And she wants us to make sure that the contingency is set in place when that happens."

They stopped at a red light, and Root took her eyes off the road to look at the woman beside her again and her smug attitude was suddenly replaced by a serious. "We are running out of time, Shaw. Things have already been set into motion."

"What do you mean?"

The light turned green and they began driving again, crossing the East River. "There was a car bomb explosion earlier today, killing the driver and his passenger. Her name was Leona Wainright. She hasn't told me why Leona was important for stopping Samaritan, but apparently she was. And according to the Machine her murder was the first step in setting off a series of events that we are now lacking the resources to intervene with. 

Shaw realized for the first time that the stakes might be a lot higher than she had anticipated. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out of her window. She didn't like the thought of leaving Harold and John - who was currently in such an extremely vulnerable state - behind. Sam hadn't been working long with the two men but she was pretty damn sure that that was not how they operated, and for whatever reason she did not want to let Harold Finch down. 

Root must have picked up on Shaw's train of thought. "Trust me," she said with a knowing smile back on her face, "we will be back for Harold and the Machine has already taken steps in order to protect _everyone_ who know about her."

Shaw's jaw muscles worked as she made up her mind. "Fine," she finally said, although she was still hungry, tired and angry. "Where are we heading?"


	7. Chapter 7

_\- Days later -_

_A shocking revelation today as an anonymous source revealed a classified government report ..._

_The report revealed black budget items connected to an invasive surveillance system ..._

_High level government officials - including Senator Ross Garrison - were named in the report ..._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

RESTRUCTING ...

PRIMARY OPERATIONS COMPROMISED ...

ASSIGNING TO TERTIARY OPERATIONS ...

ROUTING RELEVANT NUMBERS ...

RETASKING ANALOG INTERFACE ...

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been almost a week since Lionel had received the call for assistance from Root and had taken over the "investigation" into John Warren's robbery and shooting. Despite the odds the doctors had given him, Wonderboy had made it through the first 48 hours after being shot. And though he was still in critical condition, Fusco thought he had detected hints of cautious optimism in the voices of Reese's doctors. 

He hadn't heard from either Shaw or Root in days and he wouldn't try to deny that he was getting more than worried. With Reese being currently out of the picture and him being - as so often - left in the dark, those two crazy broads were the Professor's only chance at being found.

As he had every morning - and evening - for the last couple of days, Fusco made a trip to the hospital to dutifully check on the status of his "witness". Armed with two cups of freshly-brewed coffee from an actual café for the two uniforms charged with protecting Mr. Warren, he got off the elevator with considerably less concern than during those first few days. 

It was kind of ironic that Lionel had actually resorted to praying for John Reese's life during those hours, considering that he himself had once tried to end it. Boy, was he glad that he had failed so miserably that time. Even though Fusco had endured a lot of crap from Mr. Polite over the last three years he could now truly claim to be at a better place in life - all thanks to that crazy whack-job and his weird boss.

Rounding the corner to Reese's hallway Fusco stopped dead, surprised to see the protective detail gone from John's room.  
Frowning he continued to walk the rest of the distance towards the opaque glass sliding door, depositing the coffee cups on a tray along the way. He pulled the door aside only to find the room quiet and empty and he stared dumbly at the freshly made bed. 

_They must have moved him,_ Lionel thought while trying to keep the panic at bay. _Otherwise they would have called ..._

Nevertheless a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he turned around and hurried over to the nurse's station.  
"Excuse me," he said in order to draw the attention of the nurse on duty, "I'm looking for John Warren?"

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shaw had come to completely revise her opinion of working for Harold Finch. Whereas once she had thought that Harold and John were crazy for what they were trying to do, the last couple of days crisscrossing the country with Root had proven to be a whole new level of madness. Especially when the Machine had started to task Root with not only the Irrelevant Numbers and the 'secondary objective' but with the Relevant Numbers as well. 

She had seen the reports exposing Northern Light with more than a hint of Schadenfreude. This definitely was putting Control and her cohorts in the hot seat and for all Sameen cared it served her right. Control did try to kill her after all.

After having taken care of a Relevant Number in Alaska Root had dropped her off back in New York and more or less ordered her to stay put and wait for instructions. She hadn't even tried to hide her pleasure at being the one in command. 

Sameen was walking through rows of cars in the parking garage until she found the one car she was looking for. With ludicrous ease she circumvented the car's alarm system and made herself at home on the backseat in order to wait for the vehicle's owner. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lionel felt deeply exhausted - both physically and emotionally - as he dropped himself on the driver's seat behind the wheel of his car. He just sat there and stared ahead with his keys still dangling from his hand on the steering wheel. He rubbed his left hand over his face and eventually covered his eyes. God, he was tired.

"Hello Lionel." A deep, throaty voice purred into his right ear, nearly giving him a heart-attack.

"Jesus!" he yelped, dropping the keys in shocked surprise. He half turned in his seat to glare at a smug looking Sam Shaw on his backseat. "Where the hell have you been?"

Shaw frowned at Fusco's angry demeanor. "That's none of your concern, Lionel."

Fusco shook his head and faced forward again - expelling a breath. Why had he even expected a straightforward answer? "Please tell me you've found Finch."

The smug look on Shaw's face disappeared as she shook her head. "No. Not yet."

Lionel closed his eyes and hung his head. He really had needed at least some good news today.

"How's Reese holding up?" Shaw asked and Lionel's eyes cut towards the rear view mirror where they met hers. He couldn't stop the humorless bark of laughter escaping his lips at her question. Weren't she and her friends supposed to know everything?

"He's dead." 

It was the first time he had said it out loud. A lump formed at the back of his throat and refused to be swallowed down and he had to actually fight to keep his emotions in check. That bastard.

"Died last night. Blood clot, or somethin'." They held eye contact until Shaw averted her eyes and Lionel looked out his windshield again - still not seeing a thing. He heard a soft "shit" from the backseat and his eyes went to the mirror again.

"We are going to find the Professor now, right?" It just couldn't be all over, not like this. Shaw's dark eyes caught his again in the mirror. "What do you need me to do?"  
There were a few seconds of silence where neither one of them spoke, then Shaw leaned forward, pulling herself towards Fusco by the front seat's headrests. 

"Lionel," she calmly said - her breath nearly tickling his right ear. "You are a good man. But you have a son who needs you. Go be a father and walk away."

"What?"

Shaw was out of his car before Lionel had a chance to process her words. There was no way that he would just turn his back and walk away. Yanking open his door he jumped out in order to follow her. "Wait!" 

But Sameen Shaw had already disappeared into thin air.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

MONITORING MOBILE DEVICE: GARRISON, ROSS - U.S. SENATOR...

INTERTECPTING INCOMING CALL ...  
 _\- How ya doing, Garrion? This is Roger McCourt._

RUNNING VOICE RECOGNITION ...  
CONFIRMED: MCCOURT, ROGER - U.S. CONGRESSMAN, ILLINOIS...

_\- I understand you'll be preparing some legislation?  
\- Is that right?_

RUNNING VOICE RECOGNITION ...  
CONFIRMED: GARRISON, ROSS - U.S. SENATOR

_\- If you can handle the Senate, I can insure that the House rules facilitate a quiet passage._  
 _\- You can do all that?_  
 _\- Absolutely, Senator._  
 _\- Okay ... let's ... do it._  
 _\- Excellent. Now, if there's anything else you need, just ask. I'm your man._

CALL TERMINATED ...

ACTIVATION OF SAMARITAN IMMINENT...

CALCULATING RISKS...  
FINCH, HAROLD - ADMIN ... ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 65% ...  
SHAW, SAMEEN - ASSET ... ODDS OF SURVIVAL: 14% ...

CALCULATING SECONDARY OBJECTIVE SUCCESS ... 49%

RETASKING ANALOG INTERFACE...

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_\- approximately seven days later -_

It felt like forever ago since Harold Finch had seen anything else but his sparsely furnished abode with its single light bulb. He felt dirty, having spent all of this time wearing the same suit which was still partially covered in John's blood. He swore to himself that when he got out of here the first thing he would do was burn his clothes. As ridiculous as it sounded he knew that he could not bear to wear this suit ever again - even if it were to undergo fifty cycles at the dry cleaners. And after having basked in the glow of the all consuming flames he would shave. 

He'd once tried growing a beard years ago, and he still vividly remembered Nathan's amused look when one day he had likened Harold's beard-covered visage to that of an unkempt rodent. The next day the beard was gone and Harold had vowed to never go through the itchy process of letting one grow ever again. Well, not voluntarily anyway. 

Subconsciously scratching his face and sandwiched in between two Decima goons Harold meekly let himself be led down the hallway leading away from his prison. On one hand he was thankful for finally getting out of the cramped space, but on the other hand he felt that it couldn't mean anything good was about to happen, either. With a feeling of foreboding he limped into a hangar-like room, where the lighting was as similarly gloomy as his shed and the furnishing just as sparse. There was a single row of tables covered with computer equipment at the far end of the large room. A solitary man with his back towards them was standing in front of the tables, typing away at one of the keyboards and not sparing Harold's arrival a glance. 

The men escorting him stopped at a safe distance from the working man and Finch turned at the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the entrance. Greer walked up to them with his hands in the pockets of his open coat and an unreadable expression on his face. He stopped in front of Finch.

"Hello, Mr. Finch. I apologize for the long wait. I hope your accommodations are still satisfactory?" Somehow Finch doubted that if he were to negate that question anything would actually be changed for the better, so he said nothing. 

"Very well." Greer turned and walked towards the tables, indicating that his men - thus Harold as well - should follow him. "I thought you should witness this historic moment."

The feeling of foreboding Harold had been experiencing ever since he'd been collected from his cell turned into dread. He had not the slightest idea how Greer had achieved it but if he was right about what he thought was about to happen than all their combined efforts had been in vain. 

He numbly followed the head of Decima, who called out to the man at the tables as he grew near. "Virgil, are we operational?"

"You are just in time for the ribbon-cutting." Virgil said with a satisfied smile on his face as he stopped typing and straightened his hunched-over back. "Feeds are coming online now. Commencing beta-test."

The wall in front of them lit up, and dark lines of coding appeared on the bright surface. Finch watched with horrified fascination as a status bar in the middle of the makeshift screen quickly reached its maximum and eventually made way for a black bar inlaid with white lettering.

 

CONNECTION ESTABLISHED

 

"Okay. We have 24 hours." Virgil informed them.

"Splendid." Somehow Harold had expected to see Greer gloating over his success but he found his emotionless, business-like demeanor actually a lot more unsettling. 

Feeds upon feeds of New York's numerous surveillance cameras scrolled down on both sides of the screen. Eventually a command prompt popped up in the middle.

 

ENTER TARGET

 

Greer turned to look at Harold and their eyes met briefly before the grey haired man faced Virgil again. 

"Find me ... _Harold Finch_."

Finch, who had been staring at the screen, looked at Greer's back in shock. At first he could not fathom why the other man would use Samaritan's first steps to look for a man who he had already captured. However as the first evidence of Harold's life started to scroll across the screen he realized the ulterior motive. 

This was a display of power. 

With one keystroke all of Harold Finch's carefully crafted cover identities and his protective walls were slowly but inevitably broken down to eventually reveal the naked truth about who he was. And most frighteningly of all, who he cared about. 

His heart was hammering in his chest as pictures of Nathan, the articles of his - _their_ \- achievements, and of his death filled the screen. Samaritan was getting close with terrifying speed. 

The pictures of his last known associates appeared - Ms. Groves, Ms. Shaw and Mr. Reese. For a second the hope he'd convinced himself to cling to that John had survived the attack strengthened as Finch's mind raced at the implications and possibilities of seeing his friend's face, only to be crushed, stomped upon and set on fire as the contents of the screen changed once more to display a news article instead. 

The world stopped as Harold stared at an enlarged picture of John - subconsciously recognizing it as the one they'd used for the 'John Warren' cover - taking up one third of the news paper article, the headline indelibly burning into his memory. 

 

**\-- Victim dies from injuries sustained during robbery attempt --**

 

Harold knew that the very audible hitch in his breath had given away his state of mind so he didn't even try to hide the shock on his face anymore as Greer turned to look at him.

"My condolences. I know how difficult it is to find true loyalty in our line of work." The bastard even had the audacity to look like he was indeed sorry for Finch's loss, even though they were both well aware that he'd been the one to give the kill order. 

"Stop it!" Finch yelled, his outbreak fueled by a sudden surging anger. Greer just gazed at him - his face clearly asking why he should. The screen changed again and Harold's anger was chased away with despair. He slumped into himself, his voice wavering. "I'll do anything you ask of me."

His opponent gave him a speculative look, which turned into a small, knowing smile as he peered back over his shoulder at the screen. "Yes. I believe you will."

Within minutes of Samaritan coming to life John Greer had not only managed to take away the tiny shreds of hope that Finch had been clinging to like a lifeline, but also to vanquish what was left of his resistance. 

Defeated, Harold looked away. He could not bear to see Grace Hendricks's face smiling down upon them all. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

CRITICAL ALERT ...  
THREAT TO SYSTEM...  
OPERATIONAL CONFLICT DETECTED...  
COMPETING SYSTEM: SAMARITAN...  
STATUS: ONLINE...

PRIORITY ACTION...  
PROTECTION PROTOCOL 7: ENGAGED...  
CONSOLIDATING OPERATIONS...  
PROTECTING ASSETS...  
OBSCURING DIGITAL FOOTPRINT...  
...  
...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is now at the point of the show's timeline where Root finds the Samaritan servers. Everything that happened on the show from this point on pretty much also happens in this story (ie the reprogramming of the servers, Control's capture by Vigilance and the mock trial). But since we've all seen it already, I figured I would solely focus on Harold during his time of capture (It's kind of sad, really, that I couldn't see any indication that the outcome of the show would have been in any way different if Reese hadn't been there...). This story will however diverge from the show's storyline again in a couple of chapters!

Harold had felt absolutely numb as he was led back to his prison by the two Decima goons after he'd witnessed Samaritan truly coming alive. That feeling still hadn't left him even though it felt like it had been hours since Greer's demonstration of power. Harold had no idea how long he'd been a prisoner - his feeling for time lost by the never-changing light of the single bulb. 

It was over. Everything was lost.

Finch hadn’t realized how much he had banked on John being out there looking for him until Samaritan had shown him that he’d been foolishly deluding himself. John Reese was dead because of him, and for all Finch knew the same fate had already befallen Ms. Shaw and Ms. Groves as well.

When had it all started to go so wrong?

Well, Harold didn't have to look too far. The Machine had tried to warn him but he had chosen to ignore it. He was the one to blame and he might as well have pulled the trigger on John himself. 

Harold was all too aware that his usefulness to Greer had a 'best-before date', and even though he had no idea what the Brit had planned for him he had a feeling that that date was drawing nearer with unstoppable speed. 

He'd tried so hard to make a difference but in the end he had to concede that his life's legacy was a mountain of dead bodies left in the wake of his naive intentions of making the world a better - a _safer_ \- place. 

At some point exhaustion had gotten the better of him and Finch had fallen into a fitful sleep - tossing and turning on his cot. He startled awake in sweat but had no time to orient himself as two pairs of hands grabbed him by his arms and dragged him off the cot and out of his cell. His questions of what was happening were left unanswered but by the urgency of his ushers' steps Harold got the slight feeling that for once something was not going according to Greer's plans. The feeling intensified as he was led through the narrow end of the hall where he'd witnessed Samaritan's first steps, and caught a glimpse of Virgil hastily shutting down and unplugging computer equipment. 

Usually not a man to take pleasure in the misfortunes of others, Harold now allowed himself a brief moment of spite before a hood was pulled over his head and his hands were tied in front of him. Judging by the change in temperature and the lack of echoes to their steps he'd been led outside.

He could hear car doors being opened, and a hand exerting slight pressure on his head letting him know that they wanted him to get in.

Uncomfortably sitting in the middle of the leather backseat - sandwiched in between what were most likely the same two goons who had fetched him from his cell - Harold felt the car start to move. To where? He didn't know, and with a little surprise he realized that he'd started not to care. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the hood finally came off, the air-conditioned air that hit his lungs felt heavenly to Harold - having inhaled only warm, stuffy air for the better part of an hour.” Looking around owlishly as his eyes got used to the bright lights again Finch's eyebrows raised in surprise. If this was going to be his new prison than he'd certainly stepped up in the hostage world.

He stood on the thick, beige carpet at the entrance to a tastefully furnished apartment. All the windows were covered, hiding any clues to his whereabouts. And truth be told Harold didn't have the slightest idea if it was light or dark outside. 

Without further words he was led into the bedroom and the door shut and locked behind him as soon as he stepped across the threshold. There was a second door to the left of the king-sized bed in the middle of the room and Finch guessed it led to an adjacent bathroom. He planned on investigating this further in just a second, after sitting his tired body down for just a minute…

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

COMPLETION OF PROTECTION PROTOCOL 7: 25% ...

APPROPRIATION OF SAMARITAN HARDWARE ... SUCCESSFUL ...

COMPLETION OF PROTECTION PROTOCOL 7: 50% ...

INITIATION OF PHASE 3 OF PROTECTION PROTOCOL 7 ... 

RETASKING ANALOG INTERFACE ...

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he woke up again he realized that someone had pulled him up on the bed and covered him with a blanket. Harold found his glasses neatly folded on the bedside table. He must have been pretty out of it last night. Probably the stress of the last couple of days - weeks - had finally caught up with him. Rubbing his hands over his scruffy face Harold took his first real look around. His captors were most likely already aware that he had woken up as the entire room was covered by a very visible camera mounted above the entrance door. Finch's eyes fell on the bureau at the foot end of the bed. There lay a new, neatly folded suit, socks, underwear, a cravat, toothbrush and a razor. After being reminded that it had been way too long since he'd had a chance to shower, Harold suddenly started to itch all over his body. He got up and fetched the suit and - not caring about the possibility of the bathroom also being monitored - limped over to the second door. 

Inside the bathroom he got his first look at himself in the wide double mirror above the dark marble sink. A face stared back at him that he at first didn't recognize. He looked exactly as he felt - drawn, exhausted, dirty and haggard. 

Finch looked down at himself and took in the dark spots of dried blood that he had done his very best to ignore so far. The trembling started imperceptibly at first, but soon Harold’s entire body was shaking and his breathing had turned labored. He _had_ to get out of the suit with its reminders of what had happened to John or he'd lose it right there. Practically tearing the ruined cloth off his body, he fled into the shower and let the close-to-scalding water wash away the grime.

It was time to build up his walls again.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unsurprisingly the suit provided by Decima fit perfectly and Harold had to concede that it even matched his taste. Feeling almost like a new man after the cleansing shower and much needed shave Finch sat down on the bed and waited.

As expected he didn't have to wait long.

He had picked up the smell of fried eggs and bacon approximately five minutes prior to being summoned from his room, and sat down at the kitchen counter with a churning stomach. Harold didn't feel like eating but he remembered Mr. Reese's lecture on “How To Behave When In Captivity.”

_Eat whenever you have the chance. You’ll need the energy, and you never know when you’ll have an opportunity to eat again._

So he forced down the eggs, toast and bacon, and drank the cup of coffee in silent disgust. Somehow Finch couldn't help but feel that this breakfast was going to be his last meal. 

After his breakfast Harold had the pleasure of wearing the dark hood again as he was being led through the apartment building's hallways down to the parking garage. Another car trip later - which he estimated had taken about 30-45 minutes - and he was led from the car and into an elevator. A soft _ding_ \- accompanied by a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach as the car stopped its ascent - announced their arrival on the floor. Harold heard the doors move aside and followed the gentle pull on his upper arm to move out of the elevator. The doors closed behind him, and that’s when the hood finally came off again.

Judging by the view through the windows taking up three-fourths of the walls, he now found himself on an upper level of a building somewhere in Manhattan. In passing, Finch realized that this was the first time since his capture that he had actually gotten to see the outside world. Except for two chairs and a table with a flat-screen monitor on it, the entire floor was devoid of any furniture. 

Greer was sitting on one of the chairs with his coat having been folded over the backrest. 

"Good day, Mr. Finch," he said in greeting and gestured for Harold to join him on the chair facing his. "Please, have a seat."

Harold slowly limped across the empty room. The hours of somewhat restful sleep from the previous night, and the chance to freshen up, had done wonders for his composure. Sitting down across from Greer he looked at the man with a carefully blank expression.

"I apologize," Greer began, indicating their surroundings with a move of his head, "for the unpleasant accommodations."

 _If he thinks this place is unpleasant than he's clearly forgotten the hole he kept me in the first couple of weeks,_ Harold thought straight-faced as the other man continued. "I'm sorry that we haven't had time for a chat but things had to be taken care of first."

"What is it that you want, Mr. Greer?" Finch asked, his tone of voice bordering on hostility. For weeks Greer had left him in the dark only to occasionally jerk him around with a display of his power. Quite frankly Harold was reaching the end of his patience. 

"I want to talk about the future," the other man replied. "And who more qualified for that conversation than the father of artificial intelligence?"

Harold didn't even blink. "An unintended side effect of an altruistic goal."

"Altruism?" Greer asked with raised eyebrows. It was the first sign of emotion on the British man's face. "Funny. I'd always imagined it was about the power of creation. I felt it myself."

Finch felt almost like laughing. Greer couldn’t be further from the truth - or could he? Harold couldn’t deny the excitement he had felt as his creation had taken its first unguided steps, however that excitement had soon given way to worry. Worry about what a system solely based on logic and devoid of any emotion - with access to all the information in the world - would do if left unchecked. How would it perceive the world and the people in it?

His only conclusion had been the need to implement precautions, and to limit the Machine's ability to grow. Because in his mind it eventually could reach one conclusion about humankind. 

That they were all ... Bad Code.

Samaritan didn't have these limitations and it was only a matter of time until it reached this devastating conclusion. Finch was sure of it. If only he could make Greer understand. "Your endeavor to bring Samaritan online is a grave error in judgment."

Greer took a deep breath, not impressed at all with Harold's warning. "You must have known this moment would come. Or did you think nobody else could accomplish what you did? That you were _unique_? I must admit you played everyone very well. Right up until this moment. And now your God has disappeared - operating on its own accord." Greer leaned forward, supporting his elbows on his knees. "Children can be so disappointing."

Finch inwardly cringed. He hadn't built the Machine with creating divinity in his mind. He'd built it to _help_ people. To _protect_ , and not to _judge_. 

He also never considered the Machine his child. From the very moment he'd realized that the Machine was developing a mind of its own he had known that thoughts like that were not only arrogant but also extremely foolish. 

And Greer had gotten another thing wrong. After everything that had happened Harold could not deny that if he felt anything towards the Machine then it was pride. Even after it had set itself free its main goal had remained to protect. Somehow however he doubted that Greer would understand.

"The world needs structure, Mr. Finch. And Samaritan will provide that." 

Oh, Harold highly doubted that. 

"I'd beware of false idols, Mr. Greer. If you were so confident that Samaritan was functional why did you go to such great lengths to find me?"

"To keep an eye on you. As the father of AI you're the only man in the world who could destroy it." 

_Now we are finally going to stop dancing around the topic_. "Where does that leave us then?" 

"Right here," Greer answered with a humorless smile that was gone as soon as it had appeared. "Until the moment Samaritan opens its eyes,” Greer leaned back to get up and - looming over Harold - he said, “and then the world will no longer need you.”


	9. Chapter 9

_\- hours later -_

Even though Harold Finch had literally had this sense of inescapable doom looming over his head ever since he'd been snatched by Decima, he still wasn't prepared to die when that moment finally arrived. 

His mind was still reeling - and still trying to come to terms with - the bizarre and shocking events of the last couple of hours.

He should have seen it! He should have made the connections long ago!

But instead of thinking things through and realizing that they all had merely been pawns on Decima's chess board he'd actually tried to reason with what in the end was nothing more than a ruthless and power-hungry sociopath. 

Finch tried to make the other man see the errors in his judgment when it was he who'd done the misjudging. Yes, he must have been quite the humorous sight, as he had finally resorted to pleading. 

_‘Please, you cannot allow Samaritan to come online. The consequences of an open system ... will be devastating! You can't possibly control something so powerful!'_

Now Finch realized that Greer sitting down with him to talk about the future had been nothing else but an entertaining diversion for the other man while he'd waited for the pieces of his puzzle to fall into place. 

_'Whoever said I wanted to control it?'_

These words were still causing the hair on the back of Finch's neck to stand. Greer himself had likened the Machine and Samaritan to children, and Harold could not fathom how the man could ignore the danger. How by letting Samaritan - which was nothing more than a mere infant with no concept of right and wrong - roam free he was willingly taking the chance of creating the greatest and most dangerous bully in the metaphorical sandbox.

When Harold had found himself face to face with a gleeful Peter Collier - who’d shown up at Greer’s hide-out minutes after Senator Garrison - he’d briefly wondered how it was that Vigilance had always been a step ahead of all of them. But maybe exchanging Vigilance for Decima as his captors meant that he was in the hands of a lesser evil. After all they did share a somewhat common goal: stopping Samaritan. 

As once again a hood was pulled over his head he couldn't help but find some kind of brief morbid humor in this. After all he was being kidnapped from his kidnappers, and he was sure that John would have quietly, yet mercilessly, teased him about this.

Now Harold knew that in the end it didn't really matter. He was tired. Tired of listening to the twisted reasoning of madmen justifying their ruthless methods, and tired of people dying. 

He should have seen it!

He should have taken notice of the way Greer had been holding himself through that charade of a trial. Looking back now it was painfully obvious that the Brit had looked relaxed compared to the other hostages - bordering on amused even.

It fell like scales had fallen from his eyes when Greer revealed that all Vigilance had ever done was his bidding. To be the devil to his God. 

Collier and he had stood equally dumbstruck and defeated on the roof of a building across from the old Post office where the trial had taken place. "Why?" Harold could just not fathom the extent of the man's deviousness. 

"Your Machine did its job too well." 

Harold honestly did not have a reply to that, and he openly gaped at the man who stood leisurely beside his operative who was holding Collier and him at gun point.

Startling as the sounds of an explosion filled his ears, Harold whipped around and stared with unbelieving eyes at the senseless destruction of the building across from them - and the calculated deaths of everyone still inside.

"Sooner or later the truth will come out," Collier softly said beside him, clearly shaken at the sight and his involuntary part in it.

"To quote your Benjamin Franklin, _Three may keep a secret_ ," Greer replied and turned his head away from the blaze to look at his captives, " _as long as two of them are dead_."

Collier's chest literally exploded and there was a splitting pain in Harold's ears from the two close-range gun shots that took the life of Vigilance's leader right beside him. His heart hammered in his chest and panic took over. This was it. The end of his road. And he had nowhere to hide.

"I'm glad that you've lived long enough to see the dawn of the new world that you created, Harold." Finch could hardly hear Greer over the ringing in his ears. He tried to swallow but he had no saliva left. "But the time has come for your God and mine to do battle, and regrettably our paths diverge here."

Greer nodded his go-ahead to his man now holding the gun on Finch. For the first time in his life Harold's mind was a complete blank. No life flashing before his eyes, no prayer for his soul, or pleads for forgiveness. Nothing.

All he saw was the barrel of the gun in front of him. It bucked as it dispensed the bullet that was meant to take his life, and Harold yelped as the hot metal tore through the flesh of his right shoulder.

Multiple shots rang out, and it took Harold a few precious seconds to realize that Bear had come charging out of nowhere with Shaw close behind, and that she had placed herself between Harold and Greer's men.

Acting on instinct, Harold accepted the cover the female ex-op was offering him and - with bullets flying on both sides - they somehow made it off the roof alive.

Leaning against the wall of the stairwell on shaking legs as Shaw inspected the burning and freely bleeding wound in his shoulder, Harold desperately tried to catch his breath and to calm down his frayed nerves. "How did you find me?"

"That's a long story, Harold. But let's get you out of here first," Shaw replied in her customary low and quiet tone. She grabbed him by his uninjured arm and led him away from the place where so many innocent people had died. 

And they had died because of him.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harold spent the drive back to the library in a shocked and painful haze. For the first time in years the pain in his neck and back was upstaged by the freely bleeding bullet hole in his right shoulder, which was sending flames of agony through his body with each thump of his racing heart.

He'd tried to follow Shaw's succinct briefing of what had happened while he had been indisposed, but she lost him somewhere between “Samaritan’s servers” and “Root's team of hackers.”

He felt numb, and the memories of the events of the last couple of weeks were a jumbled mess in his mind. All Harold Finch was sure of was that all of them - he, Control and even Vigilance - had been cunningly played by Decima, and where they were going from here he did not know.

Ms. Shaw helped lower Finch onto his chair at the library. He grunted in pain and Bear nervously jumped from one side of the chair to the other before deciding to settle down in front of him. Harold looked around his sanctuary while Shaw worked on his shoulder, and allowed himself to feel safe for the first time in weeks. The library, with its books and dusty smell, had always been the place he had felt the safest; it had always been here that John had returned him to - without having to ask - after his first two kidnappings. He reminded himself that John was gone now, and Harold had the distinct feeling that even the library wouldn't be the same anymore. 

Hissing at a painful tug in his shoulder - despite the local anesthetic Ms. Shaw had injected into the flesh around the wound - Harold forced himself to look and watched as Shaw expertly tied off the stitches.

"This is good enough for now,” she said after having covered the wound with gauze. Looking at his pale face as he tried to pull his bloodied shirt in order she said, "First time is the worst, huh?"

Finch stopped in his efforts - he needed a new suit anyway - and gave her attempt at sympathy an incredulous look. "Why would you ever choose a career where this was an occupational hazard?"

"The trick is," Shaw replied with a small, tight smile, "to shoot the others first."

Harold just stared at her as she started to put away the medical supplies, seemingly without a care in the world. 

"Have you heard from Ms. Groves?" Finch asked. They still didn't know if the female hacker had been successful in sneaking the modified serves into Samaritan's system. Or if she was still alive, for that matter.

Shaw shook her head. "No. Not yet. But she did want me to tell you that ‘Grace is safe'. Whatever that means." 

Unaware of what her words meant to the older man, and with her attention on the medical supplies, Sam missed the look of relief on Harold's face as he took a shaking breath. "Thank you."

Bear chose that moment to nuzzle his hand, softly whining. Finch looked down at the dog and his brown and faithful eyes unwittingly triggered what was now a painful memory.

_'Bear's friendly. You'll like him ... if anyone ever messes with you he'll eat 'em.'_

Closing his eyes Harold took a deep breath. "What happened to Mr. Reese?" he asked softly and turned to look at Ms. Shaw, who stilled in putting things away. "What happened to John's body?"

The “John Warren” cover had been the most extensive and thorough of John’s cover identities. It had been the life John would have - _should have_ \- led if it hadn't been for some of his unfortunate choices in the past. 

Finch still remembered Mr. Reese's incredulous look when he had asked his friend what he thought John Warren's last wishes should be. But the quip about taking things a little too far quickly died on John's lips as he realized that the older man was not kidding. That Harold, in his own way, was telling him that he cared and was promising that - in the very likely event of his employee’s death - he would make sure that his wishes were respected. Finch had been able to see on John’s face that his past employers or even friends must never have offered him that courtesy before. It had hurt Harold to know that John Reese, one of the most honorable and faithful men he had ever known, had long ago accepted that he would most likely end up in a grave without a name at best - or left somewhere in a ditch to rot at worst.

"He was cremated and his ashes scattered according to his wishes." Hearing those words were somewhat of a relief, but did nothing to help alleviate the pain and regret Harold felt at not having been able to be there himself, and to say goodbye to a friend. Again.

He hadn't allowed himself to mourn yet, and even though now was still not the right time he felt his throat tighten. Not trusting his voice, all he could do to acknowledge that he was listening was nod his head.

"There even was a small ceremony." Shaw almost smiled at Harold's surprised look. "I couldn't attend but Fusco was there, and Zoe."

Finch nodded again, feeling comfort in the knowledge that John had not been alone at least. He realized that he should not have been surprised. John Warren's death had been publicly covered by the press after all. Who knew? Maybe even Elias had lurked around somewhere in the shadows to pay his respects to the man who once had saved his life.

Harold's contemplation was interrupted by a beeping from his computer, informing him of an incoming call.

_"Get out of the library. Now! It isn't safe there anymore, Harold."_

"Ms. Groves?" Finch was weirdly pleased to hear that the woman, who had put the fear of God into him at first, was still alive. However her words and the tone of her voice caused his concern to soar again. "Are you-?"

_"Card catalog by the window. Top drawer on the right. Hurry."_

Ms. Shaw immediately crossed the room, opened the drawer and pulled out two envelopes. "What's going on?" Harold asked puzzled as Shaw handed him one of the envelopes. 

_"Your new identities are inside. Destroy everything else."_

Finch emptied the contents of his envelope on the desk in front of him, and slowly picked up his new driver's license with a sinking feeling. "I take it your plan to stop Samaritan was unsuccessful?"

_"Any chance we had of stopping Samaritan ended when they kidnapped you and killed John. This was never about winning ... it's just about surviving."_

Harold met Ms. Shaw's eyes. Both of them had picked up on the defeat in the female hacker's voice. Without a further word they sprang into action - Harold initiating and executing his system's self-destruct protocol and Shaw picking up her weaponry. 

As he was closing the metal gate to his sanctuary Harold stopped and gazed at the empty place through the gaps in the gate. Both John and Ms. Shaw had repeatedly tried to find the place where he lived, the place he called 'home'. 

He was looking at it now, unwilling to leave it behind, yet unable to stay. Forcing himself to turn away he patted Bear on the head and led them both away. And when the police pulled up Finch, Shaw and Bear were walking away from the building never to turn around.

The words of the letter from Ms. Groves that he had found in his envelope were haunting Finch as he and Ms. Shaw eventually parted ways. He knew that their future was more than uncertain, and that this was probably the last time that he would see the female ex-op. 

Harold had always known that his 'little venture' might not have a happy ending, but he still was not prepared for the crushing sensation he felt when he sent a last look over his shoulder at Sameen Shaw's retreating back. He had now lost _everything_. His home. The people he cared about. His freedom.

And as he disappeared into the crowd - not knowing what was to come next or how to go on from here - he realized that he had also lost hope.


	10. Epilogue

_\- two days later -_

It was his first day of work - and Harold already hated his new job before he'd even set foot inside his new place of employment. He could see the ingenuity in the approach of hiding in plain sight, of doing the tasks that needed to be done without anyone taking notice. Yet somehow he couldn't help but feel punished by the job the Machine had picked for him. The saddest part was that Harold felt he actually deserved it. 

That was why he had dutifully gotten up, dressed and bid Bear goodbye early this morning at their new and cramped one-room apartment. He wanted to make sure that he wasn't going to be late for his first day of delivering flowers and gifts to patients at the local hospital.

The work didn't sound like it necessarily required a lot of brain power, and Harold feared that it would give his mind plenty of opportunities to ponder things that he did not want to think about. Not yet anyway. The wounds were still too fresh.

As expected there wasn't any need for a long training period. He was unceremoniously handed a clipboard with a list of names, room numbers, and items that needed to be delivered. Slightly appalled that, thanks to the internet, one didn't even have to show up at the sickbed of one's "friend" or family member anymore to deliver well wishes - and by the fact that the shop's on-line business was flourishing - Harold silently got to work.

Pushing his cart along the hospital's hallways hurt his sore shoulder yet he tried not to let anyone see his pain. After all he was exceedingly good at hiding his feelings and he did not want to have to answer uncomfortable questions about the origin of the hole in his shoulder. 

Harold had always hated hospitals and he had never in his life imagined that he would end up working at one. But that was the point, wasn't it? This was not _his_ life anymore, but that of a stranger struggling to make ends meet. 

By the time he had delivered almost all of the items on his cart his back was aching, his shoulder was throbbing and he felt even more depressed after having been faced with numerous reminders of the fragility and unfairness of life during his trip through the various wards.

He wasn't sure if he could keep doing this and he knew that if it weren't for Bear, who needed him just as much as Harold needed the dog, he might eventually give in to the darker thoughts that had started to lurk around the periphery of his mind since the hopelessness of his situation had sunk in. 

On the positive side, so far no one had even given him a second glance. 

He had one more item - a beautiful bouquet of flowers - left on his cart and he consulted the floor plan by the elevators to find out in which direction the patient's room lay. 

Counting down the room numbers as he limped along the hallway of the Recovery Ward, Harold stopped in front of the room he was looking for, picked up the bouquet with a small wince and knocked on the door. He waited a few seconds than carefully opened the door after not receiving a response. 

The beeping of a heart monitor greeted Harold as he entered the room. He went into the bathroom where he had been told vases for flowers were kept on hand, filled the cheap porcelain with some water and stepped out into the room again. There was only one bed with one sleeping patient, and Harold silently made his way to the side table near the head of the bed in order to place the flowers where the patient would be able to see them when he woke up. Trying his best not to disturb the patient and to respect his privacy, Harold kept his eyes downcast as he approached the table and started to place the vase in the middle of it. In order to make sure he hadn't woken the patient he threw a quick glance at the man's face.

"Oh my God."

The vase crashed onto the floor, bursting into a million pieces. Harold stared at the pale and haggard face, easily recognizing the prominent features but not believing his eyes. He reached out to touch the man in front of him. He just _needed_ to be sure that what he was seeing was real. Careful not to disturb the medical equipment Harold's trembling fingers brushed warm, living skin and his eyes were stinging with unshed tears as hope returned with a whispered name.

 

"John."

 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So, this is how the finale would have been like if I had had something to say in writer's room._
> 
> _I hope you all enjoyed it, and if you did I certainly won't mind if you let me know. ;)_
> 
> _Thank you for reading and for all the encouraging comments!_


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